


the heart is a muscle

by ghostbandaids



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, DadSchlatt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Good Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Good Parent Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Jschlatt-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Lonely TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Musician Wilbur Soot, Parental Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Past Child Abuse, Running Away, Tags May Change, TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), there are flashbacks to it, they are not streamers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29386395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostbandaids/pseuds/ghostbandaids
Summary: “Why’re you out here?” Schlatt asked. “Teenage rebellion?”“I wish,” the boy mumbled. “No one to rebel against.”“There are shelters, y’know,” Schlatt said. “Foster care.”“I know,” the boy answered. “Been there. Done that. It didn’t—it didn’t work out.”Schlatt's not sure why he offers Tommy a place to stay. It can't be out of the kindness of his heart because he's almost convinced himself that he doesn't have one. Almost.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Minx | JustAMinx (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 166
Kudos: 882





	1. cigarette smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CW:** this work will contain references to past child abuse/neglect through both discussion and flashbacks. it will also depict alcoholism and substance use (by adults)
> 
> is this premise realistic? no. am i being self-indulgent while writing it? yes. i just really want some dadschlatt & tommy. this won't actually be super plot-based, just shorter chapters and some personal development

It was long past night and into the morning when Schlatt saw the kid. 

The streets of the city, Los-Fucking-Angeles, were filled with the hum of tires and the thrum of life, despite the absence of the sun. He could feel warmth rising from the sidewalk, the concrete releasing the stored heat it’d gathered over the long, hot day. 

It was still hot but at least it was dark now. Didn’t help the pounding hangover in his head much — he was always hungover — but the dim brown of the light-polluted sky wasn’t conspiring against him like the sun always seemed to do.

Lighter in one hand and cigarette in the other, he flicked the flame on and sheltered the end of the thin stick from the wind of passing cars, holding the orange tip between two fingers. 

It lit, sparking for a second before the tip blackened and he lifted it to his mouth to take a drag. The first inhale was always the best, burning his lungs in a way that the city smog never could. 

He started walking; the valet had spirited his car away, and he didn’t particularly feel like putting effort into finding it. He decided that if he got bored or lost — whichever happened first — he’d call his chauffeur. Until then, he’d walk.

Turning a corner to what felt like the same sight of billboards and neon lights, he saw someone curled up on the ground in a doorway. 

That wasn’t unusual. 

The city had lots of things and one in surplus was homeless people, living in a place where the temperatures never dropped low enough to be dangerous. Hell, he’d woken up on a few sidewalks himself, not as far in the past as he’d like to admit. 

So he kept walking, hoped the person was alive but tried not to look at them. That was just how the city was. 

He took another breath of smoke.

“That’ll kill you, y’know,” said a voice. He turned. The person — a boy, teenager maybe — had sat up and was blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Got another?”

“Shit, kid,” he said. “Being a little contradictory, aren’t we?” He kept going, didn’t look back. Maybe it was time to call his driver. 

“I’m not a kid,” the not-kid yelled. “I’m a man.”

“Sure,” Schlatt said. “Sure you are.”

“Anyway,” the boy said, jogging to catch up with him. “Who’re you? You look important.”

Schlatt would be lying if the words didn’t preen his ego a bit. He’d always kept quite the tailored suit collection. 

“I am,” he said, opening his messages and sending his location.

“You an actor?”

He shook his head.

“Musician?”

“Even better,” he answered. “I find the musicians and the actors and anyone with actual talent in this city and I make them famous.”

“Oh,” the boy said. “And someone pays you to do that?”

“They pay me lots,” he answered, smoke rising from his mouth and a wicked smile painting his face. It was true; they paid him more than he knew what to do with, enough that at some point, more zeros weren’t even that exciting. 

This close, the boy looked skinny and covered in smudges, bruised from the fights that street kids tended to get into. And he looked tired. 

“Why’re you out here?” Schlatt asked. “Teenage rebellion?”

“I wish,” the boy mumbled. “No one to rebel against.”

“Oh,” Schlatt said. “How long has it been?”

The boy tugged his sleeve and looked down at the ground, shifting from foot to foot. 

“A while,” he answered finally. 

“There are shelters, y’know,” Schlatt said. “Foster care.”

“I know,” the boy answered. “Been there. Done that. It didn’t—it didn’t work out.”

“Oh,” Schlatt repeated eloquently. The kid was too young to be aged out and far too young to be living on the streets where god-knew-what would eventually happen to him. The fact that he was relatively unscathed seemed a miracle.

For a second, Schlatt was six years old, tugging on his mom’s sleeve and telling her that he was hungry. She nodded but she didn’t hear him, didn’t look at him. If there hadn’t been a pile of bottles next to the recliner, he might have thought about asking his dad — but he wasn’t supposed to talk when there were bottles. His stomach was an aching pit of hunger.

Then there were headlights on the side-street, the expensive, sleek body of his car pulling up to the curb. He shook his head and dropped the spent butt of the cigarette, crushing it under his shiny loafer. Reaching for the door, he opened it in a smooth motion and swung himself onto the seat. 

If he had to give an excuse for what he did next, he would say that he was bored. That he was prone to making bad decisions outside of work and did strange things on a whim. Anything to escape the idea that he’d done it to be nice. To ignore the fact that the boy had looked painfully hungry, the expression on his face all-too-familiar. 

Because Schlatt wasn’t kind or nice to anyone. He wasn’t even a good person. _He wasn’t._

He didn’t close the car door. Outside it, the boy gazed with wonder at the trim lighting and the minibar and the drifting scent of expensive cologne that the leather seats had adopted. 

“You coming?” Schlatt asked. 

“What?” the boy said, confused and cocking his head as if he’d heard what Schlatt said but didn’t believe it. 

“I asked if you wanted to come with me,” Schlatt said, gesturing towards the interior of the car. 

“Am I being kidnapped?” the boy asked. 

“No,” Schlatt shrugged. “It’s your choice. I don’t care, to be honest.”

A grin spread across the boy’s face, and Schlatt realized that the kid didn’t have a single drop of self-preservation. A normal kid would have remembered the lessons that every parent gave: ‘ _don’t go with strangers’_. A normal kid would have run back to parents — not that this one had any to run to, it seemed.

The boy climbed into the car without a second thought and gazed admiringly at the interior, running his fingers along one of the smooth leather seams. 

“This is nice,” he said. 

“It is,” Schlatt agreed absentmindedly, scrolling through his schedule for the next day. Meetings, calls, scouting. He sighed, almost forgetting that he’d somehow-accidentally-managed to acquire a child. 

“What’s your name?” he asked, glancing up at the boy who was staring at the snacks in the console with obvious desire but making no move to take them.

“Tommy.”

“I’m Schlatt.”

“What kind of shit name is that?”

“People seem to like it. Are you hungry, Tommy?”

Tommy’s face contorted in a grimace like he thought what Schlatt was asking was too good to be true and didn’t know if he should say yes or not. In the end, the hunger won out. 

“Yes,” he answered, the word punctuated by his growling stomach. 

“Me too,” Schlatt said. “There’s probably some leftovers at home.” There was more than that — a personal chef if he felt like it — but he thought it best to start simple.

“Home?” the boy asked. 

Outside the car window, the lights rushed by. It was quieter inside, some faint rock music drifting from the radio in the front. It was almost like he couldn’t hear the city at all, like the world had gone silent and was waiting for him to speak. 

“Yes,” Schlatt answered, wondering what the hell he’d just gotten himself into. “Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like writing modern-time acquisition of teenagers is a little different than you see in those dsmp fics where tommy gets adopted by phil immediately so i hope that you liked it! tbh schlatt's motivations aren't supposed to be super clear right now, especially because he doesn't want to think that he's a good person, but the relationship will be strictly parental/mentoral. 
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/ghostbandaids)
> 
> let me know what you thought!


	2. porcelain shards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tommy gets a house tour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooo i was going to get a couple of chapters written before i posted this one but you're in luck because i'm too impatient. 
> 
> cws are the same as on the first chapter (and in tags)

What did people do with kids?

Schlatt had no idea. 

He’d had his fair share of relationships, none of them lasting long enough for marriage or long-term commitments. Babies were needy — he was too busy for the desire to have one, and kids just seemed too slimy and loud anyway. 

As far as role models? He hadn’t had any. He’d had parents of course, but they certainly weren’t models of anything good. 

At least he knew what _not_ to do, even if he hadn’t learned how to love or raise a kid: don’t yell, keep them fed, don’t drink around them — he wasn’t sure how that was going to work out — buy them things, _care_ about them. Maybe he was just projecting, thinking about what he wished he’d had.

It seemed like the longer he stayed awake, the more melancholy he got. 

“We’re here,” the driver said. He’d never learned the man’s name, and it was too late to find out now. 

“Thanks,” he said, waiting for the door to be opened. 

“C’mon,” he said to Tommy before he realized that the kid hadn’t brought anything with him in the car. “Shit, did you leave your bag or somethin’?”

The boy shook his head, staring mutely at the expanse of the mansion in front of them. 

“Didn’t have one,” he finally forced out, eyes still focused on the house, palm trees swaying in the wind. The glass panes rose from the ground up to the 2nd-floor patio, shining in the headlights of the car. 

Schlatt’s house was sleek, white. Modern with a finish that was almost unwelcoming — he’d commissioned it that way. 

Expensive. 

“You coming in? You can take a picture later,” Schlatt said, smirking as he pushed open the front door. There was a lock but he didn’t use it much — the gates and the guards made it safer than almost anywhere. 

“The bedrooms are this way,” he said, his voice accompanied by the percussive clicking of their feet on the marble floor. “I’ve got a lot of extras—don’t really care which one you use.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “Most of them are empty anyway. Just stay out of mine.”

“‘Kay.”

Tommy trailed him through a warren of decorated hallways, art on the walls and sculptures on pedestals lit by golden spotlights. Schlatt pointed out the kitchen that they would come back to and the living room where there were bookshelves he didn’t use and a floor-to-ceiling TV that he did.

He wished that he still felt the child-like wonder present in the kid’s eyes, but it’d faded long ago, replaced by something — boredom, maybe. Or apathy. It wasn’t as if he’d picked out the decorations or had any attachment to them, though he knew they were impressive.

“That’s my room,” he said, pointing to a closed door down the hall. “You can have any of these.”

“Go on,” he said when Tommy didn’t move, gesturing to the row of unlocked doors — the guestrooms that tended to stay empty unless he filled the house with a party. “Pick one.”

“You’re joking,” Tommy said.

Schlatt laughed, shook his head. “Nope.”

Tommy hesitated, giving Schlatt a chance to take it back. When the man didn’t say anything, he walked slowly towards the first door and turned the polished metal knob, peeking into the room.

“I like this one,” he announced after a couple of seconds.

“How do you know?” Schlatt asked. “You haven’t even looked at the others.”

“I don’t need to,” Tommy answered. “This one’s good.”

“I’ll show you the rest of the place if you want.”

Tommy nodded vigorously and Schlatt waved for him to follow as he headed back the way they’d come. 

“You have a fucking pool in your backyard?” Tommy exclaimed when Schlatt pointed out the glass doors towards the thing, glowing softly and inset in the grass of the lawn. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever used it,” Schlatt answered, amused. “But it’s there.” The only times he could remember being in it were when he was drunk, a bartender or sober guest jumping in to fish him out as courtesy to the host. It was cleaned twice a week, nonetheless.

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” Tommy said mournfully. 

They reached the kitchen and Schlatt told Tommy to help himself to the well-stocked fridge as his hands shook slightly and his eyes drifted towards the equally-well-stocked liquor cabinet, a tall, oak cupboard. 

_Not now,_ he thought. 

“What do you mean, help myself?”

I mean, take whatever,” Schlatt answered. “The microwave’s over above the sink—weird, drawer model—don’t ask me why they gave me that one—and you can heat up as much you feel like.”

“Oh,” Tommy said, peering into the depths of the fridge. Everything in there was from Schlatt’s personal chef, portioned meals and things he could have eaten if he felt like being healthier. “Okay.”

He piled food onto the plate, glancing nervously at Schlatt before carrying it to the microwave.

“Is it—is it too much?” he asked.

“Well—” Schlatt said. “I think that you forgot dessert.”

A grin broke across the boy’s face and Schlatt grabbed some soufflés from the fridge, too nauseous to attempt a larger meal himself. 

He was used to eating dinner alone, so it was strange to be asked what seemed like a question in between every bite. He answered them as patiently that he could, given that he was dead-tired and hungover and a single man who’d never spent more than a consecutive hour with someone that wasn’t around his age in his life. 

Which was to say that his answers quickly turned into one-word ‘ _yes’_ or _‘no’s —_ not that the boy seemed to be dissuaded. In between his questions, he scarfed down food as if he hadn’t eaten a real meal in a long time, one arm placed in front of his plate defensively.

When they were finished, they walked back towards the rooms. Well, he walked; Tommy ran, skidding around every corner in his sock-clad feet. Schlatt almost saw it coming, almost told Tommy to slow down. But he remembered how reprimands like that stung, so he stayed quiet. 

It wasn’t that surprising when the boy tripped, straight into one of his display-pedestals. 

The sculpture tilted dangerously. 

And tumbled to the ground. 

Splintering into a million pieces. 

He remembered the day the decorator had showed up with the pair of piss-colored glass vases that had so many holes they couldn’t actually hold anything, spouting something about ‘ _juxtaposition’_ and ‘ _allegories.’_ He’d told her they were _‘ugly as fuck’_ and she’d frowned slightly, pursing her lips.

‘ _Whatever,’_ he’d said. _‘Display them, I don’t care.’_

They’d sat on both sides of the hallway since then, a testament to all the times he said he didn’t care but actually kind-of did. Every time he walked past them, they put him in a terrible mood — he’d started taking different routes through the house. But he’d never actually done anything, just left them there.

And now one was lying in pieces at his feet.

He grinned.

Tommy, curled in around himself and backed against the wall, flinched at the smile. 

Schlatt supposed that it looked cruel; he’d always looked cruel when he smiled. Got it from his dad who was cruel in more than his expressions.

“I’m—I’m sorry—” the boy stuttered, “—was an accident, I swear—maybe I can fix it.”

“Hey,” he said quietly, “It’s fine, really. That thing was fucking ugly.”

“What?”

“I’d been wishing someone was around to break it for ages.”

Tommy stood up a little straighter, though he took a step back when Schlatt started to move. 

“In fact—” the man said, swinging his arm, “—I think it’s about time this one went too.” With that, he smashed the other sculpture into the ground. The pieces of it scattered across the hall, mingling with those of its pair.

It felt good, finally destroying them both. Maybe the kid could make some macaroni art for the pedestals. 

Tommy watched with wide eyes as Schlatt used his loafers to push the shards away from the center of the hallway. 

“Careful,” Schlatt warned. “I might have missed some.”

Still, Tommy was speechless. 

“You alright?” Schlatt asked. “Not hurt from when you fell or anything?”

“Fine…” Tommy trailed off, voice a little higher than usual.

“Okay,” Schlatt said. “Might want to be a little slower next time—there are a couple things in this house that I’d hate to see become casualties to the hardwood.”

Tommy nodded, eyes fixed on Schlatt’s.

“Ready to go to bed?” he asked. Again, Tommy nodded. 

“Yes,” he said quietly. 

“The bathroom’s right there,” Schlatt said, nodding towards it. “I have my own so you can use this one whenever. I think there’s some extra clothes in your room’s dresser—they’ll probably be too big but they’ll work for now.”

He started to walk towards his room and Tommy followed, hesitating for a second at his bedroom door while Schlatt continued. 

“Schlatt?”

“Yes?”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

He waited until he was in his room with the door locked to go for the bottle of whiskey, taking a comforting shot or maybe a couple or more, hard to keep track once everything got blurry. 

He was seven, cowering in front of his father as the man yelled about a broken dollar-store cereal bowl, his mom watching the exchange blanky from the couch. The air was thick with smoke and he choked on it and his sobs, pleading that it was an accident and that he swore he didn’t mean for it to happen. 

That night, a fist made his world spin, made everything go black. 

Tonight, it was probably the whiskey. 

He collapsed into his silk sheets and sleep swallowed him whole while the sun rose over the unforgiving city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it!
> 
> i promise that there will be a voice of reason in the next chapter because most people (author included) don't really condone the impromptu adoption of teenagers even if the intentions are good hehe
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/ghostbandaids)
> 
> let me know what you thought! comments feed me


	3. black coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> minx (our queen) arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has a lot of dialogue,,, not really sure how that happened. i also formatted it at school so there are probably some mistakes that i missed, please ignore them
> 
> I've got all my chapters planned out now! all hail queen minx

Schlatt woke up to a pounding headache, the same as every morning. 

_But,_ a voice in his head interjected, _today isn’t like the other days._

Why wasn’t it?

He heard feet shuffling and a door opening out in the hall — _oh_. That was why. 

_Will be in late,_ he texted to one of his partners at the label after scrabbling for his phone on the bedside table. As if they hadn’t noticed that the sun was high in the sky and he was nowhere near his office. 

Stumbling into the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and tugged a comb through his hair which only made it look worse. After completing his morning routine — get face wet, dry face, brush teeth — he pulled a clean shirt over his head and jammed his feet into slippers.

Tommy’s bedroom door was closed when he passed it on his way to the kitchen. 

“Huh,” someone said from behind him while he was preparing to make the darkest coffee he could. “You’re alive.”

“Good Morning to you too, Minx,” he said. “Bet you wish I wasn’t.” His slightly unsteady hands measured the scoops of ground coffee into the french press and he poured the boiling water over them. 

“I was fantasizing about how before your funeral, I would sneak in and shave your mutton chops off.”

“Say that again and we’re all going to be attending yours instead.”

“Sorry. I know that you’re insecure about your facial hair—it’s alright to admit it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Fuck you.”

He drank the first cup of coffee straight, burning his tongue a little, before he poured another one. 

“There’s a bit of a mess in the hallway,” he said. He’d passed the shards that morning and his day had brightened significantly, but he didn’t want anyone to step on them. 

“And?”

“You’re the fucking housekeeper, aren’t you supposed to deal with that kind of stuff?” 

He didn’t even remember hiring Minx — must have been heavily intoxicated while he did it. She just showed up one day and started terrorizing him while also being damn good at whatever her job was. But for someone with the title of housekeeper, she had a large aversion to doing any sort of cleaning or work when Schlatt asked. Maybe that wasn’t actually in her job description but Schlatt wasn’t sure; he liked her too much to fire her regardless.

“Do it yourself.”

He sighed. “Just ask one of the cleaners to do it, please.”

“Fine.”

“Oh,” he said. “There’s a boy in one of the guest rooms—name’s Tommy.”

“What?” she asked, voice tight, “What did you say?” 

He repeated himself, explained how he’d brought Tommy back the night before. The more he talked, the more he realized how ridiculous the whole situation was. 

“What the fuck do you mean you just found him on the street? You can’t take children, no matter where they were to begin with!” Minx yelled. 

“He was hungry,” Schlatt said defensively. 

“So you should have bought him a Happy Meal or some shit—” she hissed, “—not abducted him!”

Minx had a point.

“He’s so young,” Schlatt said. “And he said he didn’t have anywhere to go.”

“Oh great,” she said. “He’s fragile, too. Do you remember that time when I left for like, four days and all the houseplants died?”

“That was a freak accident, houseplants don’t even need water that often—”

“—Schlatt,” she interrupted. “That’s not the point. The point is that you think you can take care of a child when I _know_ you can’t even take care of yourself.”

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong?”

He didn’t answer because Minx always seemed to be right. Here he was, mid-afternoon on a day that he had work, hungover and haphazardly dressed, nothing in his stomach but a soufflé. 

“Look, it’s better than living on the street like he was,” Schlatt said after a long pause. “He can eat whatever he wants, do whatever. He’s obviously independent if he was living alone.”

“Children don’t just need food and water to survive. They need someone to care about them. Do you know what that’s like, Schlatt? Do you even have friends?” she asked, glaring at him. 

“You’re my friend—”

“—you pay me to take care of your estate, there’s a difference.”

“If I paid you more, would you say that you were my friend?”

She sighed. 

“I can’t believe that you just took a kid,” she said, dropping her head into her hands. “Do you know how much paperwork I’ll have to do if the feds come?”

“I think that if there was anyone looking for him, he wouldn’t have been sleeping on a sidewalk.”

“What the fuck, Schlatt,” she said. “Honestly.”

He finished his second cup of coffee but she wasn’t done with her rant.

“Every time I have to deal with some almost-scandal I think it’s the worst thing you can do and then you go pull something like _this._ It would make more sense if he was some illegitimate love child—but no! Jschlatt just kidnaps kids off the street like it’s a totally normal thing to do—”

“—Minx,” he interrupted sharply. It was too late. In the kitchen doorway, wide-eyed, was Tommy.

There was a long moment of silence before the boy spoke. 

“I’m not kidnapped,” he said. “I like it here.”

“Oh great!” Minx yelled. “He’s got Stockholm syndrome too! This day can’t get any worse.”

“Do you want breakfast?” Schlatt asked Tommy, ignoring Minx. Even though she thought he couldn’t provide emotional connections — probably true — he did know how to make scrambled eggs and microwave frozen breakfast burritos. He could at least provide meals. 

“Are there people looking for you?” Minx asked the kid.

“Back off,” Schlatt hissed in her direction.

“I’m emancipated,” Tommy answered quietly. “My parent’s choice, not mine.” In the lighting of the kitchen, the scratches on his face were emphasized and the too-big clothes from the dresser hung off his thin frame.

Minx’s anger drained out of her and Schlatt wanted to say _‘See? See what I mean?’_

“I was in foster care,” he continued. “Was.”

“Why aren’t you there now?” she asked. “You’re definitely not eighteen.”

“I ran away so many times that the house-leader started to get in trouble,” he said. “She made a deal with me that if I wanted to go, she wouldn’t tell. Kids slip through the cracks in this city—I’m sure she’s still sending reports in for me.”

“What if they come to pick you up?”

“I doubt they’ll try to take me out of a place that I’m—” he lifted up his fingers to make air quotes, “—doing so well in—According to the paperwork that says I’m still there, it’s the longest I’ve ever stayed in a house.”

“Why did you run away?” she asked. Tommy wrapped an arm around himself and looked at the ground, his eyes unfocused. 

“Minx,” Schlatt said, voice hard and warning. 

Her brow furrowed and she turned to Schlatt. “We’ll talk later,” she said. “You don’t want the legal repercussions of them going to pick him and him not being there—and I’m not convinced that you even want _him._ I have no idea why you’re doing this.”

Schlatt was eight and twelve and fourteen, at mercy of all the kids in the homes who kicked and stole and screamed. They were just like him, in a way. Hungry, lonely, tired of living in a world that didn’t seem to want them. 

He was sixteen, shivering in an alleyway because he was done. Done with the adults that used him for money and the kids that competed for food. In his bag, he had a water bottle, a stolen 20-dollar bill, and a cassette player with tapes from the library that he listened to religiously.

He never went back. 

Minx stormed out of the room. 

“She’s not mad at you,” Schlatt said. “Don’t worry. She’s just a bitch sometimes.”

“I heard that!” Minx yelled from the hallway. “I could quit at any second!”

“You wouldn’t!” he replied. “I pay you too much.”

Then the door slammed and Tommy and Schlatt were left alone in the kitchen.

“Breakfast burrito?” he asked. 

Tommy just nodded and sat down at the counter. Schlatt brushed the ice off of a couple and stuck them in the microwave and for a second, they sat there and watched them spin in lazy circles. 

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Tommy said. “If she thinks it’s a bad idea for me to stay, I don’t have to.”

“It’ll be fine,” Schlatt said reassuringly, standing up to grab plates as the microwave timer went off. “Don’t worry about it.”

Schlatt had barely set his plate down and taken a bite of his burrito before Tommy’s was gone.

“You can have more if you want,” he said. 

“I can?”

“Yeah.”

Tommy got up and made another. Schlatt checked the time and realized that the traffic meant he would barely get to work before everyone started going home. 

_Fuck it,_ he thought. _It’s not like they’d fire their best worker._

“Want to go shopping?” he asked. 

Tommy stared at him for a second before nodding, a small smile spreading across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/ghostbandaids)
> 
> the next chapter literally has no plot but i like it so i'm going to keep it that way
> 
> let me know what you thought! i'm a little behind on replying to comments but i promise that i read and appreciate each one<3


	4. shopping bags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> schlatt and tommy go shopping + schlatt actually does work for once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternative chap title: the ugliest fucking neon-yellow basketball shorts
> 
> disclaimer: the female oc in this isn't significant and won't be in any other chapters, she's just there to show schlatt's job. also this chapter is so pointless (i do not love it, don't even really _like_ it, making myself post it anyway) but i promise the next one will be good.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” Schlatt said to Tommy the first time the boy returned, carrying a couple of pairs of jeans and a red and white T-shirt. 

“I can put some back—”

“—No, those are fine. I just meant that you have to pick more out.”

“Why can’t I just wear the clothes from the bedroom?”

“Those shirts look like fucking hospital gowns on you,” Schlatt said. 

“I make them look good, though,” Tommy said, winking. 

Schlatt just shook his head, smiling down at his phone — it was  _ definitely _ his unread emails making him smile and not Tommy. They were in one of the larger stores of a high-end mall and the boy kept returning empty-handed, looking speculatively at the price tags instead of picking out more clothes.

“Don’t you want to be like me?” Schlatt asked. “I’m classy.”

“I bet you’ve never even bought your own clothes,” Tommy replied. “There’s no way you picked that out.” He gestured at Schlatt’s slim, grey suit.

He was right, of course, but Schlatt didn’t exactly want to admit it. 

“Look,” he said instead, “I can pick out an outfit and I bet it’ll be a good one.” 

“Yeah?” Tommy asked, raising his eyebrow.

Schlatt stood up and surveyed the nearby racks, eyes drawn to some basketball shorts in a neon-yellow shade that stood out from all the other shirts and shorts hung around them. Then he found a shirt in about the same shade. 

_ Color coordination is good,  _ he thought.  _ Right? _

He presented the clothes to Tommy proudly, and the kid dissolved in laughter. 

“Do you want me to look like a highlighter?” he asked, “The fuck is this?”

Schlatt winced.

“I would wear it,” he lied. 

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” he said, because he was committed now. 

Tommy grabbed the shorts and shirt in a larger size, adding them to the pile of clothes they’d amassed. 

“I look forward to it,” he said, and Schlatt sighed. 

In the end, their pile was rather large, and the lady at the counter did a double-take when they walked up to the counter with it heaped in their arms. Schlatt didn’t even look at the charge before he handed his card over.

“Want to buy some games or something?” he asked Tommy as they walked past a glass-windowed shop with posters from games and movies plastered all over the front in neon colors. 

“I’ve never really played any before,” Tommy answered.

“Neither have I,” Schlatt admitted.

It only took them 15 minutes of debate to settle on three games. 

The kid with thick glasses and unruly hair at the register said that Minecraft and Mario Kart were good choices for beginners when he checked them out. He didn’t say the same about GTA, looking as if he wanted to ask how old Tommy was. 

“You’ll have to get two of these if you want to play together,” he said instead. 

Schlatt went back to the shelf and grabbed another copy of the game and, after a second spent wondering whether he had two consoles to play it on, grabbed one of those too. Better safe than sorry — the price wasn’t a concern.

Tommy’s eyes widened slightly when the new things were added to the pile and put in bags but didn’t say anything. 

“Don’t mine at night!” the shop-worker yelled as they left the store, elbows laden with purchases. 

“What did he mean?” Tommy whispered.

Schlatt shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.” 

Back at the house, Schlatt tried plugging different wires into the consoles for what felt like an hour but was probably five minutes before he gave up and let out a pitiful, “Minx!”

“What?” she groaned, poking her head through the doorway with a pencil stuck behind her ear. 

“I need help,” he repeated.

“Fuck off.”

“Have I mentioned that you’re looking exceptionally beautiful today?”

“I’m quitting.”

“I’ll give you a raise.”

“What do you need help with?” she asked sweetly. 

“We don’t know how to start the TVs.”

She sighed, spent a couple minutes staring at the different cords and outlets before switching some around and watching the GTA loading sequence appear on the dual screens. Then she threw the remote back at Schlatt — hitting him square in the forehead — and perched on the arm of the couch to observe. 

“I’m stealing this dude’s car!” Tommy yelled, leaving Schlatt, who couldn’t even figure out how to move his character, behind. 

“Wait!” he said. “Where are you going?” 

A police car ran him over and he screamed in frustration. 

“Take that, bitch!” Tommy yelled, pushing a tractor off the road and watching it plummet into the canyon. 

“That house looks kind of like yours,” Minx said, pointing to one of the sprawling mansions in the game. She leaned over and whispered something in Tommy’s ear, and the boy nodded with a determined expression on his face. 

Just when Schlatt had learned how to move forward, admiring the shiny front of his video-game-house, he saw a plane approaching, spiraling closer and closer. 

Tommy wasn’t a good pilot, but the target was large.

“No!” Schlatt screamed as the plane crashed into the center. “My gorgeous mansion!”

It was too late; the thing went up in flames. He pretended to cover his face and cry while they laughed at him. 

In a burst of what Schlatt would consider success after several minutes of hopeless wandering around the map, he found a strip club. 

“Minx, this one looks like you!” he said, bumping his character into the woman. “Wait—no, I think this one’s rack is more like yours.”

She threw a pillow with such force that when he touched his nose, he almost expected it to be bleeding.

“There’s a kid,” she said, glaring. “And they’re all uglier than me.”

“Tommy—which one looks the most like Minx?” he asked. No answer. 

“Tommy?” he repeated. 

When he leaned over and tapped the boy’s shoulder, there was no response. He was fast asleep, hands wrapped tightly around the controller that he’d been using to play just a minute before. 

Schlatt laughed softly and threw a blanket over Tommy, the boy’s mouth upturned slightly in sleep. Then he stood up and stretched his arms above his head. 

“I have to go scout,” he said to Minx. “Missed work so I can’t get out of this too.”

“It’s late,” she said.

“I know. It’s outside of your hours but do you think you could stay? Just until I get back?”

His empty house didn’t usually need watching, but he didn’t want to leave Tommy alone in it. Even when it was filled with people and alcohol, the rooms seemed cavernous and echoing — tonight, there was no bass-heavy music or flashing lights to scare away the shadows. 

She sighed and sat down, grabbing one of the controllers. 

“Someone has to finish the missions,” she replied, pulling a blanket around her shoulders. 

“Don’t tell me you knew how to play this game and still watched me try to move my character for five minutes straight without saying anything,” he said, glaring. 

She winked. He shook his head.

“Thanks,” he said as he pulled on his jacket, doing his best to sound genuine for once. “For staying.”

“I kinda like him,” she said. “So I’m not doing this for you.”

Schlatt flipped her off as he walked out the door. 

He’d heard a name a couple of times, an  _ Emme  _ that people seemed to love that’d come out of nowhere and started playing at the little-known clubs in the city. It hadn’t taken much time to find her next venue, only a little extra effort to get a VIP pass for entry.

He  _ was  _ Jschlatt after all. 

The driver let him out at the back entrance and he slipped past the bouncer, holding his printed pass casually in his hand as he walked by. It only took him a minute to find an empty booth and sink into it, his glare strong enough to dissuade anyone else looking for a seat.

Through the haze, he watched the guitarist — Emme — walk to the mic and nod at the sound booth before starting, no hesitation. 

She  _ was  _ good; the line out the door had told him as much. Her voice — a soft, confident thing — permeated the venue without being overbearing and she held her own on the guitar, no need for backup. He found himself almost-liking the music, a rare occurrence. 

He finished off his glass and waved away an approaching waitress, brushing off a hint of sadness that the set was nearly over. After typing a couple of notes in his phone and snapping a quick picture of her, violently-blonde hair lit by neon stage lights, he stood up.

Weaving through the crowds of orbiting lovers and loners and cigarette smoke, he met up with her before she went backstage.

“Emme?” he asked, scratching the side of his face.

“Yes?” she asked, almost defensive — probably thought he was some creep looking for a phone number. 

Then she glanced up, and her eyes sparked with recognition. 

“JSchlatt?” she asked incredulously. She extended her hand, possessed by nervous tremors that she hadn’t had on stage. Instead of shaking it, he flicked a business card out of his jacket pocket and folded her fingers around it. 

Her face lit up before dimming as she turned it over and saw that there was no number to call. Just his name, embossed on the center of the glossy, black card. 

“Thank you—thank you so much,” she said. “But how am I supposed to contact you?”

“Oh, you won’t call me,” he answered. “This is just a reminder. Don’t lose it though, people have been turned away for less.”

Then he turned and walked away, back out the door and onto the street where his car waited. He’d already gotten her number from the venue, would call in a couple of days, or set up a meeting with the label. 

He wouldn’t wax her praises. He wouldn’t admit that her voice was amazing or that she was one of the best artists he’d heard that week — that month. No, they didn’t expect that from him. They expected him to find potential and he did. 

He was damn good at it too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright who's ready for sbi next chapter let's get pumped!!! i already wrote it and (:
> 
> let me know what you thought!


	5. guitar strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's take-your-pseudo-adopted-child-to-work day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy i know that the stream today was,,, a bit sad ): i haven't actually watched the vod yet but twitter is evil when you're trying to avoid spoilers. hope this makes you smile! i love sbi so much and adding schlatt in is going to be fun (this is only the beginning)
> 
> i definitely edited this in like 5 minutes, ignore any typos that you find please T-T
> 
> disclaimer: schlatt and wilbur's relationship is/was purely platonic

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” Schlatt told Tommy as the city rushed by outside the window of the car. “You ready?”

The boy nodded, making eye contact — something that Schlatt noticed he’d started to do more often. 

“We’re going somewhere where I’m important,” he said. “Where a lot of people are important, actually.”

The driver pushed down the turn signal, merging into a new lane.

“But the thing is, it doesn’t take much to seem all elite and shit—all you have to do is believe that you belong there and—boom—you do.”

“I’m already important, big man,” Tommy said, a cocky grin on his face.

“That’s the spirit,” Schlatt replied. 

The driver took a sharp turn to the right, pulling into a dark, private parking garage. And then they were there, the door being opened and Schlatt beckoning for Tommy to follow.

Their feet clicked sharply on the marble floor, echoing through the expansive atrium of the entry. Personally, Schlatt thought that they’d overdone it, but the chandelier hanging over his head and the one he’d bought for his own home practically matched, so who was he to judge?

The air smelled like expensive cologne and, more faintly, of cigarettes — even the musicians who said they didn’t smoke came in to record with the smell clinging to their clothes after late nights out. Golden light spilled down the walls and into the branching hallways.

“This way,” he said to Tommy, waving a hand at the receptionist as they passed. The boy followed behind him, tilting his head to look around but trailing close to Schlatt’s shoulder.

They’d reached the recording studio door when Schlatt held his arm out, turning to Tommy. 

“Who are you?” he asked. 

“Tommy?” the boy answered, confused. “Toms?”

Schlatt shook his head, raised an eyebrow. Realization sparked in Tommy’s eyes.

“Important,” the boy said quietly. And then in a stronger voice: “I’m important.”

“That’s right,” Schlatt said, pushing the door open. “Don’t forget it.”

Voices flooded towards them like a wave.

“—and I don’t see why you should have any say over why I eat sand!”

It’s in my best interest, mate, as your manager—”

“—best interest my ass, you’re just trying to take away what makes me happy—”

“—musicians who’ve lost their teeth to eating sand don’t do so hot in the music industry. You like singing, right?”

“I—”

“Do you want dentures?’

“Fine, fine. You win this one, but—

“Oh,” said the older man — the one who’d been against sand-consumption — when he looked up and saw them in the doorway. “Hello, Schlatt.”

“Hello, Phil,” Schlatt said. “Wilbur.”

“Hello,” the other man said, tall, sitting cross-legged on a stool, something that he’d done for years, brown hair a mess and glasses so tilted on his face they looked like they were about to fall off. “Who’s this?”

Tommy peeked out from Schlatt’s suited shoulder, blinking curiously. 

“You weren’t joking about the people here,” he whispered. “That’s Wilbur-fucking-Soot.”

“I know,” Schlatt chuckled. “It is.”

“Wilbur Soot just asked who I was,” Tommy said, voice full of disbelief. 

“He did. You can answer if you want.”

He saw Tommy mouth the word  _ important _ before straightening his shoulders and clearing his throat. 

“Tommy,” the boy said. “My name is Tommy.”

“Hi, Tommy,” Wilbur said. He turned to Schlatt. “Why do you have a kid?”

“One-night-stand gone wrong?” Phil suggested. “That seems like your thing.”

“No. Fuck off. We’re—” Schlatt started, unsure.

“—roommates,” Tommy finished. 

“Yeah,” Schlatt said. “Sure. Roommates.”

“Why are you roommates with a—a ten-year-old?”

“Not ten,” Tommy grumbled. “I snuck into his house like a raccoon and shit and started eating all his food.” If Tommy was going to lie, Schlatt would too. 

“By the time I discovered him,” Schlatt continued, “he’d already taken over a bedroom and it was too late.”

“He tried to call pest control but I scared them away so now he has to deal with me.”

“Schlatt—” Wilbur started questioningly. 

Schlatt shook his head.  _ Not now,  _ his eyes said. 

_ Later,  _ Wilbur’s answered. 

“What do you feed him?” Wilbur asked instead. 

“He feeds me dirt,” Tommy answered. “Also lots of microwave burritos.”

“You like the microwave burritos!” Schlatt yelled defensively. “And I have  _ never  _ fed you dirt—you taste-tested the potting soil on your own volition.”

“Don’t tell Phil about the dirt,” Wilbur whispered. “He doesn’t like it when things make people happy, so he takes them away.”

“Oh, sure,” Phil said. “Make me the villain when I say that everyone but you seems to know that eating sand is unhealthy and frowned upon.”

“I’d eat sand,” Tommy said. 

“Yes!” Wilbur shouted, pumping his hand into the air. 

Phil sighed and spun in his chair to face the sound booth. 

“Tech!” he shouted, “You ready?”

A tall man with long, pink hair knotted at his neck and glasses barely held together with tape gave a thumbs up from the other side of the glass. Then he pulled his headphones on and Phil motioned for Schlatt and Tommy to follow, leaving Wilbur alone in the room. 

Wilbur pulled a guitar into his lap and plucked a couple of strings for tuning.

“This is Techno,” Phil said to Tommy. “Our sound guy—well, our tech guy, that’s where the name’s from.”  Techno offered a small wave before returning to his switches. 

“Don’t you need more than one person?” Tommy asked. “For all the recording and stuff?”

“Techno’s not very social,” Schlatt muttered. 

“Well,” Phil said. “There uh—there were more people, but he got super competitive about who could do the most work and the overtime charges started to get really big—we had to move the people to other studios so that he would actually go home and sleep for once.”

“Huh,” Tommy said. “Did he win?”

“Of course I did,” Techno answered, a lazy grin across his face as he gave Wilbur a couple of beats of metronome.

“He’s the best we have,” Phil said. “Even if he did sleep for a week afterwards.”

“Sleep?” Techno asked. “Wasn’t me. I don’t sleep.”

“I know,” Phil sighed. “You don’t have to remind me. You said you went home after me last night, but I’m sure that you didn’t.”

“Do you have proof?” Techno asked.

“No,” Phil said, glaring in an almost-fond way. “ _ Something  _ is wrong with the security camera in here, so I couldn’t check to see if you’d left.”

“Then I guess we’ll never know,” Techno smirked. “Wonder what happened to the camera.”

Phil’s glare deepened to a glower.

Techno counted Wilbur in, and they listened as he started on a draft recording for one of his new songs; Schlatt had heard it drifting under his office door plenty of times, but Tommy stood there in awe — justified awe, Wilbur was one of the biggest names in the music industry. Honestly, the kid was doing pretty well at not being a starstruck kiss-up.

“Look,” Schlatt whispered to Phil, “I have a couple of portfolios to present. Can he hang out here for a little bit? No promises that he’ll behave, but he’s a pretty good kid.”

“That’s fine,” Phil said, filling out stacks of paperwork for one of Wilbur’s many events.

“Be back in a bit,” Schlatt said to Tommy. The boy only nodded in response, still engrossed with Wilbur’s music and the fluid movements of Techno at the soundboard.

He was ten minutes late for his presentation, but everyone in the meeting room pretended he wasn’t.

He went through the routine of pitching the artists he thought would do well for the label — there was a reason they could afford crystal chandeliers, after all. The board took down numbers and notes and information; he played a couple of sound clips.

“That’s all I’ve got,” he said when he was finished.

“Thanks for coming in!” one of them said. 

And that was that. The odds of the people he found turning into Billboards-artists, making the company millions, were high and all he got was a  _ thanks.  _ Not that he expected anything else. 

His paycheck seemed bigger every month. 

When he returned to the recording studio, the first thing that he heard was Tommy screeching, trying to climb onto Techno’s back and put him in a headlock — a street fighting move that might have worked if the man wasn’t built like a brick wall. Phil was laughing, recording. 

It wasn’t the sound that he focused on, though. Behind them, Wilbur was working his way through a haunting, quiet chord progression that Schlatt’d never heard before.

For a second, Wilbur’s eyes flicked upwards and met Schlatt’s and—

Schlatt was seventeen, lungs already filled with familiar smoke and head buzzing comfortingly. Across from him sat Wilbur, holding his beat-up, thrift-store guitar—

_ No,  _ Schlatt thought, stopping himself. Because the train of thought that followed Wilbur was on an endless track, the type of thing he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about sometimes. The type of thing that he didn’t  _ want  _ to think about but did anyway.

His throat was dry. 

So he didn’t think about Wilbur. He tried not to listen to the guitar that deliberately wrapped itself around his head. 

“Get him, Tommy!” he yelled, drowning out the music with his own voice.

Tommy cheered, swinging his arm like a cowboy on some horse — the mount in question being Techno. 

And underneath it all, the guitar continued. 

But Schlatt didn’t think about Wilbur.

Another minor chord, another run up the strings. 

No, Schlatt didn’t think about Wilbur anymore. 

Or at least, he tried not to. 

He  _ tried.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! i think that tubbo's up next, and maybe we'll have minx force tommy into school because he _really_ needs an education. 
> 
> if you have time or feedback, leave a comment! i love them so much, you don't even know the serotonin they bring me <3


End file.
